The Second Person Series
by Madame Lazla
Summary: A collection of (rather long) DracoxRon oneshots, all written in the second person. I generally update this when I'm experiencing writer's block from another main story. Warnings per chapter. THERE WILL BE GAY SEX


He should have been yours first. You were best mates 'til the end, right? Practically brothers. You've sacrificed your life on a giant chessboard; you've almost been eaten by giant spiders; you've been man-handled by his godfather; you've been drugged and held captive underwater. Far more than any fifteen-year-old bloke should go through. All for _him__. _Bloody hell – you'd jump in front of a bleeding _killing curse_ from You-Know-Who for him. That should have been enough for him – to know that you were there for him forever (that one time last year DOES NOT count).

So why wasn't it? Why wasn't your (somewhat) tireless devotion enough for him?

You were patrolling, as you were wont to do – being a prefect and all. Ironic, wasn't it? Out on the prowl for kids that were doing the _same thing__y_ou used to do not more than a year ago. What was the point anyway – if you lot hadn't snuck around when you did, you wouldn't have saved anything. Despite what Hermione thought, no one should actually take this job seriously. And so there you were: swaggering around looking for an abandoned classroom to conk-out in for an hour. Then you'd be relieved by some other eager sod and you'd go back to cheering…_him__…_up. Simple.

You heard the scuffle of desks nearby and heaved a hearty sigh. Christ, you didn't _want_ to catch anybody, because that meant going to Filch or the teacher in charge – and that teacher always seemed to be Snape. And all the commotion would mean you'd actually have to _do_ something productive for an hour. Now, if they were quieter, you could pretend you were deaf in the one ear and carry on your way. But no, the asses had to make a right racket of it, and the nosy portraits on this floor would tell you off for ignoring it. So (grumbling about the injustices of life and why a bloke couldn't get a decent slice of peace in this hellhole) you stamped towards the classroom door, hoping your scuffed trainers made enough noise to indicate your presence. They did not. The scuffle was joined by strange moans and grunts. Must be fighting. You opened the door a fraction of an inch, curious to see who was there.

Moonlight beamed through the windows, highlighting the upturned desks spread out in a circle. You could make out two figures in a strange lock, their ivory skins blearing in the light, but a table positioned near the door blocked them from your view. You cracked the door open another few inches. They didn't seem to notice. Must have been a _really_ intense fight. You edged in slightly, praying your distinctive hair didn't give you away just yet.

You could see them now and boy, they were _not_ fighting. Review the scene – two blokes: one on all-fours in a sort of cat-stretch and the other kneeling behind him with his glasses askew. Starkers. They were rutting, the kneeling one gripping hard at the other's hip bone and licking up his spine. The boy on the floor was moaning rather freely, one hand clawing the floor and the other working furiously at his hard-on. In an attempt to tear your eyes away from their bodies, you looked at their faces.

You knew from the boiling in your stomach and the dryness of your throat that you had turned purple. You felt light-headed and suddenly the distance from your head to the floor seemed extremely far away. You wanted to throw up violently until your innards spilled out. You were breaking out in a cold sweat.

The memory was etched in your imagination, long after you shakily staggered to the hospital wing for some sedatives (backfiring jinx, you said – Madame Pomfrey was not impressed). It was still there when you floated to your dorms and the disgust fresh as the vomit that threatened to resurface when you heard the sounds of someone sneaking into bed.

Harry Potter, your best friend since you were 11.

With _Draco Malfoy__._

It wasn't that they were both guys, you reasoned – what made them unnatural was that they were doing _that _with _each other_. The next day was terrible – it didn't seem like such a normal school day was allowed to happen after that shocking revelation. You watched Harry bicker with the git as if nothing dodgy was going on. You let him hold you back when Malfoy made another fat joke about your mother. All the while remembering that revolting little thing they'd been doing.

You knew Harry was unhappy. He was rightly pissed about not being nominated as a fifth-year prefect with you and Hermione. And there was that little incident about him almost getting kicked out of Hogwarts. And of course, You-Know-Who all free and no one believing Harry. Worse still the claims that _he_ – the saviour of the wizarding world – would kill Cedric Diggory over some stupid trophy. Still, to bugger _Malfoy__? _Right-hand man to Harry's born enemy! If Daddy Malfoy ever heard of this…

Yes, that must have been the plan all along: Lucius and his ferret-spawn were seducing Harry so they could turn him over! You decided this one Saturday breakfast – just over a week from the discovery. The thought hit you when, chomping on cornflakes, you saw one of the castle's owls swoop down to Harry, a pristine letter seated in its claws. There were thousands of them, each flying towards the respective witch or wizard, but your eyes were trained. Focused on that one damned bird that Harry looked too delighted to see. Your blue eyes narrowed considerably when he tore it open, grinning wickedly. You all but bent your spoon an unnatural angle when you saw him throw a quick glance at the Slytherin table the same time the slimy ponce threw a leer back.

It was all a ploy to get Harry. It had to be. Malfoy would have learnt how to bend the wards, with all his black magic fuckery. With Harry this vulnerable, all it would take was a body-bind jinx and a portkey. You had to do something. For humanity – the Muggles, the Muggle-borns and the wizards.

And because you had him first.

It had been too easy, stealing Harry away from Malfoy. It was almost worrying.

You made plans with him every day for two weeks: you got up early for a muck around the quidditch pitch; you bunked a lunchtime class to eat with him; you spent afternoons listening to him mope; you invited him on patrols and stayed up until dawn hurriedly finishing essays. It was almost as if last year's fiasco never happened.

Harry was a little confused at the sudden attention, but he loved it too much to call you out. He jumped at every opportunity to hang out with you, regardless of whatever duties he had to attend to. He even began to dread the letters.

All the time you spent with Harry was time he wasn't being brainwashed by Malfoy's arse and the clever bastard picked up on that. He sent letters in abundance and Harry always reacted the same way: frowning deeply and ripping them up without opening them. You asked him who they came from, he lied. You half-assed suggested he start replying to them as he threw _yet another_ one into the Gryffindor fireplace and he just turned to you and smiled in such a tender way it made you feel weird inside.

"They can wait," he said softly, "My best mate's more important."

It was inevitable that you would be forced to resort to this. Harry was growing restless and seemed to be entertaining thoughts of returning to Malfoy. He didn't read the letters, but he didn't destroy them anymore. They sat in a pile near his bed. They lined his robe pockets. They were between textbooks.

Malfoy was skulking around, pissed as hell. He'd trip random Hufflepuffs as they ran to class. He'd push Muggle-borns down stairs. Rumours went as far as to say that he spent weekends in the Astronomy Tower, jinxing whoever came into his line of sight. And his attacks on you had been raised to a new level. Once in a while, you'd snap and attack him and Harry would have to intervene. It was worth the detentions and lectures from McGonagall to see the look of hatred and betrayal that coloured Malfoy's pointed mug every time Harry told him to fuck off.

Still, he seemed to be winning Harry back slowly. You'd heard from Fred and George – sex, once had, was like a drug. You couldn't give it up. Ever. And now Harry had gone close to a month without it and was going through withdrawal symptoms. And then he'd go back to bumming public enemy no. 1. And you'd be back to _square_ 1.

You invited him to try out the prefects' bathroom. He'd been there once before – last year – but he never quite got time to enjoy it. Come at night, you told him, no one will be there. He could mull about how to best avoid dying young whilst swimming laps in the bathtub. You'd be there for protection and such, and because you knew the password.

You felt his eyes on you when you started undressing slowly. You didn't even bother with boxers. You cheerily told him to get in before it got cold before diving in. His eyes were still wide as a house elf's when you emerged, flipping your bangs back. Nothing wrong with mates bathing together, was there? The tub was big enough to give distance. He shook his head slowly before shakily unbuttoning himself. He probably would have done it quicker if you were not watching him intensely.

He slid slowly in the tub, refusing to look at you, even without his glasses. Poor boy was redder than a beet. You challenged him to a few races to get his confidence up. The bubbles and colours of the water danced light all over the place. It must have made your freckles look ghastly.

You told him that, if he won this round, that you'd do anything he wanted. You could see him gulp. You lost, deliberately. It was almost charming to see the colour deepen in his face as you stood, the bubbles just covering your junk, and wadded over. You could spot each sweat bead on his skin as you leaned over him and retrieved his glasses. Putting them on him, slowly, you asked him – in what you hoped was a husky tone – exactly how he wanted you. His pupils were dilated, the green fading to black.

Harry was better at snogging than you would have expected – that slimy git Malfoy must have taught him how. He sucked on your lips until they were swollen and red and you couldn't breathe. He wrapped his legs around your waist and guided your fingers under the water and into himself. It was arousing, leaning against the pool's edge, Harry shagging himself with just your fingers. He made sounds that stirred something in your cock. He whispered things into your ear and against your mouth that had you pining for him there and then. When he was properly stretched, he guided you to his hole.

Fred and George lied. Sex wasn't a drug. It was _fucking oxygen_.

That same night Harry burned all the letters. Tore them up, magicked them back together, and burnt them. He didn't tell you why, even after your breathless snog good night. But you knew.

You won.

They still called you 'Potter's Shadow' and you were okay with that. They didn't know – not even Hermione. It was your little secret; something for Harry to hold onto when things got too rough – and they got rough _often_.

Malfoy knew, though. Noticed how Harry never bothered with him anymore; how he didn't bat an eyelash over the letters. He didn't even look upset at the smoking red envelope that showed up one day.

"FUCK YOU, POTTER!" it shrieked before self-destructing. Harry blinked slowly, before bursting out in laughter. Everyone else thought it was related to the war. They didn't even bother to look at Malfoy glowering at his Eggs Machiavellian.

But you saw it.

And oh, but it was grand.

No one asked why you and Harry – two healthy 16-year-old boys – hadn't started dating. Everyone just assumed that, with Cedric dead and the Dark Lord fully risen, that Harry had no time for girls – much less Cedric's ex, Cho. And everyone thought that you and Hermione would get together – she'd been sending enough fluttering eyelashes and you'd been returning them in kind.

Turns out she really did like you. When you told her that you weren't interested, that you were currently involved with a bloke, she cried and holed herself in her room for days. When she finally emerged, she calmly informed you that you should make hickeys _below_ the neck line – Harry can't keep 'falling in the shower' forever.

Harry landed himself in a world of trouble for attacking Malfoy in the boy's bathrooms. The teachers thought it had to do with You-Know-Who and some weird potions book Harry picked up. But you knew better – Malfoy had grown a shade of miserable in the past year. Harry was to blame.

Or were you?

Things got harder when Dumbledore died – Harry became obsessed with horcruxes. The war was becoming violent and you wondered about your family. Being involved with Harry was getting more and more dangerous. Other people were getting affected and, even though you knew you shouldn't, you blamed him.

You dropped out of school for him. You travelled all over the world on some stupid quest. You had to deal with his hero complex and sharing a tent with Hermione meant no sex. To top it all off, he was showing her more affection than he was showing you. It's no wonder you left.

You didn't feel right, though, wandering through England with barely a knut to your name, never mind Muggle money. You blew all your savings on Muggle beer, sitting in the corners of pubs and trying to forget about Harry Potter. You were being a coward; that much you knew. But you couldn't deal with it all.

You opened Dumbledore's gift, one icy-cold winter's night, and thought about it all. What would Malfoy done in your position? He would have stayed with Harry, of course, and braved it all – wouldn't he? And here you are, the coward who pulled a vanishing act on his boyfriend of two-years, best friend of seven. And just when he needed it most. You needed to get back; you needed to make things right.

Just then, the light went through you, through your heart, and you were in the woods…

The Wizarding World was rebuilding, trying to fix whatever Voldemort destroyed. Yes, you could say his name now. He'd been good and dead for close to six months and Harry had grown tired of you shirking away from his name.

"For God's sake's Ron," he'd hiss, thumping his hand on the table and sending coffee everywhere, "It's just a stupid name! Quit being such a baby about it!"

You'd stiffly say you weren't a baby and that he'd better get to Auror training before he loses his position, Boy-Who-Lived or not. Harry would fume and glare and Apparate off, loud crack and all. And then you'd get ready for work. The Chudley Cannons were fast becoming prominent in the league with you as their new keeper.

No one seemed to raise an eyebrow when two best mates said they were getting a place together – no one except Hermione, who wriggled her eyebrows over her treacle tart. Hers was the first housewarming gift – something she called a "toastar". Harry was still teaching you how to use it to burn bread. You couldn't call what he made toast.

The Muggle neighbourhood you resided in was quaint. Its peculiarities fascinated you and that made Harry happy. He had had enough of magic and was happy to live a simple, Muggle existence. However, his little complex meant that he would still be in the wizarding community as an Auror, stamping out the last Death Eaters. Sadly, Malfoy had been acquitted of all crimes. His father, however, was not so lucky.

Harry proposed to Ginny.

You sat around the hearth with Hermione and what was left of the family, stunned. Ginny nodded wordlessly, tears spilling from her eyes as Harry slid the ring on her finger. Mum was crying in earnest, shrieking mirth and hugging them. Dad's face lit up and his chest swelled. Everyone surrounded the two of them, clapping backs, shaking hands and voicing congratulations and threats if Harry dares break Ginny's heart. Hermione didn't join in. Instead, she placed a small hand over yours and gave it a quick squeeze.

This was how Harry broke up with you.

The wedding was splendid, despite it being done behind The Burrow. Although Harry had told very few of it in the hopes of a small and intimate affair, The Daily Prophet and even The Quibbler were some of the many news crews and tabloid reporters that were there. It was a celebrity wedding to shake the ages. In some ways, it was a sign of new life rising from the ashes.

In other ways, it was a sign of how shitty the gods were.

It all made sense now: the late nights "patrolling"; your dwindling sex-life; Ginny's unannounced visits…he'd been planning to leave you for a while now. How considerate of him to tell you.

For someone who spent the last few months getting drunk and being force-fed by Hermione, you pulled yourself together pretty well. You looked spiffy in your dressrobes and you had stayed away from the bar. You had near ruined your career over booze – you'd definitely get fired from the team if a camera caught you drunkenly exposing yours and Harry's 5-year torrid affair.

After the proposal, he had disappeared. You had to walk, because you would splice yourself if you Apparated, so confused were you. It had to be a joke. It just had to. And yet, when you opened the door, Harry's things had gone. His Firebolt 2.0 was missing from the closet; his cloak was not on the hat-stand. You ran to the bedroom – his drawers were empty; his trunk gone. His toothbrush wasn't in the bathroom. You had no idea where to find him, no way to reach him until he sent that letter – three weeks later – written in the chicken scratch that was so Harry.

_Ron,_

_Sorry I cleared off like I did – I just didn't know how you'd react. Funny, isn't it? I can fight a nose-less git bent on destroying me and save all humanity, but I can't even face my best mate. I just don't want you to hate me. Though you have every right to._

_Listen, this is five kinds of inappropriate, but I've a favour to ask – would you be my Best Man? I haven't any right to ask you this, but I can't imagine anyone by my side when I do this. Just…promise me you'll think it over, k?_

_Love,_

_Harry_

_P.S. Ginny and I will be looking for a house in Essex. So the flat, and everything in it, is yours. I owe you that much._

How you conjured the courage to agree was a miracle, but it was nothing to how you felt when they kissed each other as husband and wife. Once again, you'd lost him.

You accidentally cornered him on the second-floor landing as he left the bathroom. Him tipsy from wine, you stone-cold sober. He was slightly dishevelled, happy as fuck. It upset you.

You ignored his pleas for your attention; his slightly slurred apologies. He touched your arm and you lost it. The pair of you were snogging as if your lives depended on it.

The sex was rough and hurried. Leaning against his forehead, you asked why. He pushed you off, buttoning his pants up.

"I've always wanted to be with you, Ron," he near-whispered, eyes glistening, "I never thought I'd get the chance, so I jumped at it."

Your voice shook as you told him that he had you. So why go and marry your sister?

He shook his head, on the brink of tears, "That's just it, Ron. All the time we were together, you were always looking over my shoulder. Like you were looking for something better and I was just the bait. I've tried breaking up with you more than once – you say something convincing and I'm back to where I started. I can't play second-best anymore. You try it sometime – it fucking _hurts_, Ron!"

How else did he think you spent your school days, your _life_, always second-best? You edged towards him, but he backed off, eyes leaking in earnest.

"Look, I'll take good care of Ginny, I promise!" and he was off, down the stairs with his pants barely on. You watched in defeat, deciding on a good few bottles of Firewhiskey when you finished your piss.

"Dear God, Weasley. I never knew you had in you."

You closed your eyes slowly, praying that the voice was a trick of your stressed imagination.

"_So_ sorry about your break-up. I hear karma's a bitch. Lovely wedding, though – thank God for Potter's fortune, eh?"

You remembered the small canister of pills Harry left in the bathroom cabinet – the ones that helped him sleep. You _were_ going to have that Firewhiskey.

And finish off that canister for dessert.

"So I take it you were the flavour of the week, then?" Malfoy drawled, his foot tapping to the beat of the waltz as he reclined languidly in his fold-up chair. You were trying to ignore the bastard, trying to keep the peace for _this one__day_. You blinked blearily, inadvertently turning your attention to the happy couple in the middle of the dance floor. Egh. You drained your glass.

You had no intention of getting drunk today, but it was the only thing keeping you sane. Malfoy stuck to your side like a sick little puppy, pouring poison in your ear and grinning like a maniac. And every time you looked away or stepped aside, you would see – or bump into – the merry Potters. Ginny would beam like an idiot and Harry would give a strained smile and usher his ignorant little _wifey_ away. And then you'd get _really_ thirsty.

It wasn't a question when you asked him how much he'd seen.

The blond bastard grinned again, gnawing on a salted breadstick, "Enough to assert my suspicions. You were shagging Potter; Potter replaced you with young baby-making Weaslette and you. Are. Miserable."

You told him to sod off.

"But it's true, isn't it?" he giggled, his tongue licking off bits of salt, "Honestly, I don't know why he didn't get rid of you sooner. You're poor, ginger _and_ boring."

You hissed at Malfoy to shut his mouth before you shut it _for him_. Being reminded of how worthless you were was not conducive to your wellbeing. You didn't want to deck the git just then, either – it would draw attention to you and you might have blurted something untoward.

"A fact is a fact," Malfoy said in an annoyingly chipper chant, "Don't believe the crocodile tears - Potter goes through them like underwear. You were nothing more than an attempt to fill that empty little hole in his chest. I would know."

You turned a slight shade of purple. That was why Harry had been so easy to steal away – not because you meant something, but because he was tired of Malfoy. All these years, you were never better than Malfoy. Never more important…

You covered your mouth as you heaved, quickly swallowing the bile and alcohol.

"Good boy," Malfoy passed you another shot, "Welcome to the club."

"I sorta loved 'im, you know," Malfoy somewhat slurred as you stumbled through the fireplace and into your living room. The newlyweds had sauntered off to Barbados to _thoroughly_ enjoy their honeymoon. You would have taken Malfoy home, except you didn't know if he still stayed at Malfoy Manor and he was being a right little shit about not giving his address.

He happily broke from your grasp and skipped – _skipped_ – around the room like a schoolgirl, opening and shutting your fridge, bouncing on your sofa and bounding into your bedroom.

You followed him as best you could, stumbling in your drunken stupor. What was with Malfoy? You'd never known him to be the excitable type – seemed more at home with the languid, holier-than-thou persona. It was almost as if he were under the influence, but you didn't see him touch a single drink, never mind the alcoholic ones.

When you finally made it to the bedroom door, you found out. Malfoy, reclining on your bed as if he had every right to, pulled out a small, luminous vial, uncorked it and downed the contents in one gulp. He shivered, blinking rapidly as the liquid moved through his system. He twitchily took notice of you, leaning dangerously on the door frame.

"You want? 've got another one."

You would never have pinned Malfoy for a drug user. You told him so. It seemed beneath him and, despite your best intentions, you were worried.

He sighed, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. It was obvious this conversation was killing his high. "War changes everyone, Ron."

You blinked and gaped. Did he just…call you by your first name? He must have been on one _hell _of a trip. You must have had far too many drinks as well – you liked the way he said your name. You told him that taking potions wasn't healthy, that he was wasting his life away. Sometime in your lecture, you had swayed off the door frame and collapsed on the bed by his feet.

He opened his eyes, the grey a shade darker than before. "You're right," he whispered and the conversation died as you found his lips firmly on yours.

It took a while for you to respond – appropriately, that is. It had just been...so long since Harry had kissed you and you were so lonely. Naturally, you accepted the tongue that slipped into your mouth, you even moaned a little. It was when the hand handled your junk that you pushed him off you. What the hell did he think he was doing?! What were _you_ doing?!

Malfoy clicked his tongue, irritated, "Honestly, Weasley! I'm taking your advice!"

This wasn't exactly what you meant when you said he should quit intoxicants and you informed him thusly.

Malfoy gave an irritable huff and sat against your headboard, crossing his arms.

"Look, Weasley. _Ron_. You're heartbroken. I'm a user. I need a healthier fix and you need a rebound. Why not help each other out?"

Was he suggesting _sex!?_ You felt sick again.

"I'm suggesting _therapy_. Lord knows you can't afford it and I couldn't be bothered to go cold-turkey. Additionally, it is technically _your_ fault that I'm a user – emotional distress and what have you. Be a good little Gryffindor and take responsibility, Weasley."

He had touched a nerve, adding the last bit like that. It was horrible of him to even dare blame his state on you. What was worse was how, having called on his bluff, you _still_ fell for it – guilt and booze corroded your insides and twisted them until you thought you were going to puke intestines.

You spared a little glance at Malfoy. You noted how his once-expensive robes hung slightly from his painfully frail physique; a sensuous, faded navy velvet. You took in the shoulder-length, perfectly trimmed multitude of powdered-white strands, side-parted to the right. Your eyes trailed over the long, gaunt face, the thin, dry lips and the deep purple sockets underneath those glassy grey orbs. He looked worn-out, faded, but there was still a hint of the haughty magnetism; still that after-taste of handsomeness…

When he entered you, you thought you were going to die. When he mentioned sexual healing, you had another position in mind: you on top.

"Oh don't go all squeamish on me, Weasley! And for God's sake, stop that infernal sobbing; it's doing _no one_ any good!" Malfoy huskily chastised between grunts. His thrusts were erratic, hesitant despite his façade of zeal and you could feel his trembling breath ghost over your burning ears.

When was the last time he had sex?

"I'm not in a talkative mood right now," Malfoy retorted, thrusting particularly deep to shut you up. You yelped and bit down on a pillow. He was rather endowed, much to your displeasure, but his technique was all wrong; neither of you were getting off. Moreover, his body shaking above you made you feel like _he_ was the one being pitifully accosted.

You flipped the two of you over, straddling his narrow hips. Flushed a hilarious garnet red and fanned by limp hair, Malfoy looked like he was about to protest but suddenly lost the will to. Must have had something to do with your hips grinding low into him. The ferret's eyes rolled to the back of his head and he let out a moan of relief. You rotated your hips, keeping them close to the mattress as possible as you'd seen Harry do when he rode you. You could see the allure in this position: watching Malfoy pant and thrash and whimper as you bounced and twisted on his cock, trying to find that place that made Harry come. It was a fruitless pursuit, but Malfoy's fullness, lodged inside you, was sort of nice, almost welcome.

That, and he had the ponciest cum-face you'd ever seen.

It was a week and six days until you heard from Malfoy again. He must have finally gotten over your post-coital impressions of his orgasm expression. You thought that was the end of that when he clawed at his robes, called you a sub-average Philistine and Floo-ed home; all amidst your booming laughter. Apparently not, as he Apparated into your living room and cornered you as you were washing the dishes and this time; he'd done his homework.

He took the liberties of muttering a quick lubrication spell and stretching you with two long, pale fingers while you were bent over the kitchen sink with your boxers 'round your ankles. His hair, left loose, tickled your shoulders and their blades as he coaxed himself inside you. He went slow, finding a rhythm he liked and sticking to it as his hand snaked over your member and started pumping. For all his inexperience with the back end of a bloke, he sure knew how to handle the front. You came embarrassingly easily.

Afterwards, he made sure to mimick your deep moans with humiliating accuracy as he flopped onto your couch and demanded a cup of tea.

Malfoy would arrive, unannounced and claim you whenever he wanted a fix. Shagging you became a withdrawal symptom of sorts.

It started off with just the occasional visit: once a week, twice at the most. However, his visits became four times a week round the second month. Now, nearing the beginning of the fourth month, you were almost afraid to come home from what the neighbours thought was 'rug-bee' practice. He'd be there, patiently waiting for you to unlock the front door, perched on the couch like some grand bird of prey with a cup of Earl Grey, or a tot of Firewhiskey. Sometimes he let you pack your broom and quidditch equipment away, icy-grey irises watching indulgently over the rim of his drink. Sometimes he'd let you shower the sweat and mud off. Other times still, when you were too late for his liking, he'd yank the door open and pull you in, fucking you against the wood as he closed the pair of you off the world. But he was there – always there – every day.

So, naturally, you felt a blossom of panic in the pit of your stomach when, on the four-month anniversary of your first shag with the git, your apartment was empty. There was no Draco Malfoy, legs crossed and all smirks and lechery, sitting in his favourite place on the couch that had a full view of the front door. You dropped everything, oblivious to the noise as you marched in and out of every room in the small apartment, calling his name. _Malfoy_? _Malfoy? Draco?_

There was no kettle boiling, no glass smelling like liquor, no sex, no Draco. No Draco for two whole months. And for two months you hung out in bars with Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, and came home alone. You went to Luna and Neville's wedding, and came home alone. You had dinners with Hermione and came home alone. You went to quidditch practice and came home alone. Once, you found a beautifully pale creature with long silver hair and a slender build and brought him home. But when the lights in your apartment were on and you saw his face, you apologetically asked him to leave. For two months everything was fine until you got home and realised you were alone. No Draco.

What if he were in some gutter somewhere, raped and robbed and hyped up on drugs? What if some skinhead neo-Death Eaters had crawled out of the woodworks to exact revenge on him? What if he had slit his wrists, the life-blood ebbing out of him?

_What if he just wanted to leave?_

You saw Malfoy after a dinner with Hermione. She tried, and failed, to get you to come out. She talked about Seamus, and the awkward dates he invited her to. You never thought they'd work out, but Seamus – that uncouth, Irish jokester – was trying hard to be a gent and Hermione had a retardedly soft spot for lost causes like you and him. She deserved to be happy.

You front door opened before you could touch the handle.

"'Bout bloody time, Weaselbee. I'm just _dying_ from boredom in this shoddy shithole of yours."

You never thought you'd hear that drawl, that slow, drawn-out tease ever again. Full on tiramisu and Butterbeer, you launched yourself at him, tearing at his clothes like a demented beast.

That night, the two of you found your prostate. It is, to this day, your favourite organ. It made you want more. It made him call you _Ron_.

Over the time you spent together (and apart), Draco had gotten healthier. He was still pale, slender and annoying – granted that would never change – but there was no longer the semblance of frailty to him. The purple circles that encased his now-vibrant eyes had vanished and his skin took on a healthier shade of deathly. His face had filled up so that it was gaunt instead of skeletal and the three robes (including the dressrobes of that fateful night) you had ever seen him wear now fit snugly to his form. His breath stopped smelling stale a while ago. And, though his lips would never be full, they were a soft rose, flushing whenever he nervously bit at them.

He never told you where he went for two months. You never asked.

Once you asked him to dinner. He raised a thin white eyebrow.

"That doesn't sound like a therapy session, Weasley. You _do_ remember the deal? This is no-strings-attached comfort fucking."

You pointed out that comfort food, followed by a comfort fuck, was cutting edge therapy. And it wouldn't be a date because you weren't buying him _shit_.

Malfoy gave his trademark lopsided smirk and continued sucking your cock.

He worked as an assistant at an apothecary in Knockturn Alley. That was where he learned to make his intoxicants. Also where he learnt to sell them.

"I said I wouldn't _take_ the damned things! I didn't say I wouldn't _sell _them! Christ almighty, Ron, stop sulking about like that, it's _pissing annoying_! Fine, I won't do it anymore. Happy? I'll be the picture of per-fucking-fect innocence. I'll tear the Dark Mark from my arm with my bloody _teeth_. Now you had _better _get back in this bed and hump the very _life _out of me or I swear to God I will claim you in the middle of that blasted pitch, tournament or not!"

Draco practically lived at your apartment now. Had been for the past eight months. So could he _please_ just leave some things at your place so he wouldn't have to prance out – loudly, you might add – in the middle of the bleeding night? It really buggered up your sleep patterns.

Malfoy closed his copy of the Daily Prophet, sneered at you from under his nose and snottily retorted that he would very much enjoy it if _you_ didn't see fit to wake up and go to training – loudly, _he _might add – at four o'clock in the bleeding morning. It really buggered up _his_ sleep patterns.

Nonetheless, his cosmetics – and owl – cluttered your bathroom the next day.

Draco never held much affection for the Chudley Cannons. He had some very colourful words about the team, particularly when he was trying to rip the uniform off you. So it was a given you were gobsmacked when he appeared in front of you after a rather steamy match with Puddlemere United, looking as if he had fallen face-first in dragon dung and stating that, even if you had managed ("by the grace of a retard God") to win this match, the team was still the worst in quidditch history.

The insult didn't even hit you; you were far too excited that he'd come out to watch you play. Forgetting about the press and the crowd and your teammates, you took Draco into your arms and gave him a fierce, fast kiss flush against his lips before bounding off to the change rooms.

You didn't notice the unreadable look he gave the back of your head.

_Swish. Flick._

Nothing. Again.

"Who's cock did you suck to _graduate_!?" Draco snapped, "Ginger, I can deal with. I'm even willing to overlook the _poor_ bit. But bloody-buggery STUPID is _where I draw the line_!"

You snapped right back that you had a million other things to do than _this_.

"This is your fault! Take responsibility!" he all but howled from where you had levitated him. The unnaturally large boils were all over, prohibiting him from doing much – like wearing clothes or sitting. It would be funny, if he wasn't being such a girl about the whole thing. And, quite honestly, it wasn't as if he didn't deserve it.

The blistered face twisted and turned into what you supposed was a ruffled expression. "I have, in no way, done ANYTHING to deserve such thorough harassment! I was just sitting here, minding my own business when I was _accosted_!"

He still had a lot of atoning to do to make up for the seven years he was a dick.

His glare was made comical by the sheer fact that his eyes looked like pinballs amidst the bulbous boils. "You have royally fucked my life up, Ronald Weasley. Now fix it so I can kill you."

You paged through another spellbook, wondering how things got to this.

_Swish. Flick._

Malfoy levitated above the couch, his naked skin smooth and pale as porcelain. You were enticed by the idea of dropping him, but the look on his face suggested you lower him gently.

Malfoy shot from the couch as if his arse was still covered in ulcers. He flipped his hair obnoxiously before slapping you briskly across the face with a rolled up newspaper. He dropped it in your lap as he jabbed you violently in the chest.

"Next time that _Mudblood_ touches me, I'll use the fucking _killing curse_. Got it?"

That word sent you over the edge and you engaged in a shouting match with him. Which turned into a fist fight. Which turned into avid, angry sex. Which turned into Draco lolling off as he stole your side of the blankets. You let him sleep as you padded into the living room and snatched up the paper Draco had thrown at you. Your ears turned red as animated pictures of quidditch keeper Ron Weasley kissing ex Death-Eater Draco Malfoy adorned the front page.

Your heart did a little flip when the Draco in the photo kissed back.

"For Christ's sake, Ron! _Malfoy!?_ Have you run out of _that_ many options?"

Hermione was great, she really was, but – next time – could she _not_ break into your house and attack your…your…

"Your, _WHAT_, exactly? You tell me, Ronald Weasely, because I'm just about _dying_ to know!"

Your flatmate. There. Is it alright with her now? Do you have her supreme and all-important permission? Because that is _exactly_ why you came by today. _Not_ because she saw fit to get involved in your business against your will.

She placed her fingers on the bridge of her nose and squeezed, sighing. "Ron, this isn't about permission or prying, or anything like that. This is about happiness. _Your_ happiness. And, if having a relationship with Malfoy – of all the people in the _entire_ world – makes you happy, then I can put aside my prejudices. Just…please tell me he's making you happy."

You spat out the tea you just gulped down. Waaait a second – what relationship? You guys aren't in a relationship. Ew.

"Oh, Ron. There's no need to be ashamed," Hermione had that weird mood flip because she started gushing empathetically, "I mean, you're practically out to the _entire _Wizarding World and you still have your post with the Cannons, right? All's well that ends well!"

That wasn't the point! It wasn't what you wanted! It's just – well – you sleep together because it's therapeutic. You live together because it's convenient, seeing as you sleep together. And the insults and derogatory slurs you throw at each other are because you live together because you sleep together. That can't justify as a relationship.

You felt your face turn purple and your stomach churned.

_Wasn't it?_

Draco was homeless before you found him, wasn't he?

Grey eyes widened comically and his mouth rounded to a perfect 'O'. "How did you - ?"

You found out from Hermione – who found out from Patsy. So that's why he had so little clothing. So few bags. That's why he looked so drained.

Draco turned his face away, his features bunched in a snarl. He hadn't pulled that expression in months – at least, not with as much contempt. It hurt. But you weren't going to let it go. Why didn't he move into Malfoy Manor? He still had that, right?

He turned on you, his irises unnaturally bright. "Why yes, I still have what few remains are left of my childhood home. I'm sure what parts haven't been pissed on by Death Eaters, bombed by vigilantes or confiscated by the Ministry will make a most _amiable_ habitat. I could languish on the settee my mother withered away on. Or, better yet, I could rest up on what's left of my _dead father's study_. And sleep in the _ruin_ that used to be my bedroom. WHAT A _SPLENDID_ HOME INDEED!"

He returned home well after midnight, smelling of ale, Firewhiskey and someone else's cologne. He didn't ask why you were still up by the fireplace; just fell to his knees sobbing. You didn't ask where he'd come from, or who he'd been with. You held him as he stripped you and thrust you into the couch, kissing away his tears.

The letter arrived a week later. He'd grown quite infamous since the public accidental kiss from a few weeks back. Draco still thinks it's your fault, despite how you still protest otherwise. Nevertheless, he relented and officially became _Witches' Weekly_'s freelance Quidditch journalist.

It seemed that he'd been invited to the team out of malice and for a potential rise in readership. "Imagine, Ron Weasely's sordid little lover writing for _us_!" Draco mocked in a sing-song voice during the breakfast before his first day, "Bah. The sods just want to stare and gape and jibe at how the mighty have fallen. What kind of housewife-tabloid-garbage even _cares_ about sport!?"

You told him to shut up and get his ass to work – at least he wasn't working for the Quibbler, as much as you loved Luna. He scoffed a "Touché, Weasely" before Floo-ing.

His first article was a scathing review on Viktor Krum's performance in the International Friendly with Egypt that spoke more of his prowess in bed than on the field.

It was a hit. Three cynical weeks later and he was offered a full position with a two-page spread per issue. The fact that he'd grown even more devastatingly handsome didn't hurt either.

"You boys _will _make sure to come again, won't you?"

You had just seen her not more than an hour ago, but you were glad to hear Mum liked him. You'd been on edge since you received a very lengthy Howler from everyone left in your family about your supposed "boyfriend". Both you and Draco had been dreading this Christmas dinner, practising defence spells and praying at any church either of you passed by. But it seemed to go well. Draco had charmed the socks off Mum, having had practice with his cornucopia of female co-workers. He ate with gusto and complimented everything. You were a little worried about how he was warming up to George. As for Dad…

"Oh, don't worry about that," Mum's enlarged head sighed, "He's still sore about poor Lucius. He just needs time and space to find someone new to hate."

You smiled as you heard Draco pad into the bedroom, bidding you and Mum goodnight. You saw her eyes watch him close the door before she turned to you, "Honestly, Ronald Weasely, I don't know _what_ you were thinking – hiding such a _darling_ boy like that away from us! You had better not do anything wrong to mess this up, you hear me? 'Could do with another son…"

Mum!

"Hold on a second, Ronald dear," you saw the back of her head as she addressed someone warmly. She returned shortly, flushed and beaming. "Harry and Ginny only just arrived! She looks a sight, with a belly like that! I had better go. Don't be a stranger, alright? And I expect a ring on Draco dear next time I see him!"

The green flames became red as you felt the warmth in your stomach die. Pregnant, and heavily it seemed. How long had it been since you'd seen your sister? Your blood? One of the few to survive the war? Had you been so caught up in your own life that you didn't consider hers? And how did Harry feel? _Harry…_

"Ginerva's pregnant."

You didn't expect Draco to be there, legs crossed and foot tapping. But he was, gazing from the couch with an unreadable expression. How long had he been there?

"And you're alright with that?" he ignored your earlier question.

You didn't care. That was so _long _ago. A year and a half ago, to be exact. You just want her to be happy.

Draco made a non-committal noise, his face still a dogma. You padded over to sit with him, plonking yourself on his lap. He stared up at you so intently you felt funny. Like he was touching something in your soul. What? What was he looking at?

He shook his head silently, searching your eyes. The skilled hand that touched your face was soft and cold and your skin melted into it on instinct. You saw his jaw harden slightly, documenting the bob of his Adam's Apple as he gulped. You noted how the firelight slithered through his long, straight hair; how it looked like silken thread. You wondered what he was seeing. What he was thinking. Why he hadn't objected to being addressed as your boyfriend. Why he was still with you…

You didn't have sex that night, but when you woke up, there was breakfast on the table and a note pinned to it.

_We're eating out tonight. My treat._

You stood outside the door, feeling ridiculous in the fancy attire Draco put you in. Despite what he said about how the dark blue slacks, double button jacket and white dress shirt looked on you, you were not satisfied. You looked like a fish out of water. He looked a dream, though. Always did. The new clothes helped considerably.

This was an unexpected turn of events. Draco had been teasing you about the Rainbow Wands LGBTIQ organisation that had been gushing to sponsor you when the cogs were set in motion for this very moment. You weren't supposed to be here tonight. Tonight was date night. And date night meant that Draco wanted to fly you to some city in "a civilised part of Europe" to sample some new foods, try some new clothes and have sex in public places without getting caught.

So why were you in Essex, standing outside Harry's nondescript house?

"Well, let's get this over with," Draco cleared his throat with a crisp tap on the door. For a brief moment of insanity, you wanted to bolt. You thought of French operas , of Milan fashion, of extravagant balls in Prague…

Then Ginny opened the door.

The house was normal. Off-white pastel walls and burgundy carpeting with matching curtaining. Striped furniture and an antique coffee table. All in all, rather dull. You would've have thought that near 2 years ago, but Draco had drilled interior design into your mind.

Ginny looked the picture of modern domesticity. Honey-coloured floral dress that stretched over her engorged stomach. Every time she rubbed it affectionately, the princess-cut diamond of her wedding ring caught the light. She'd always been beautiful, but now, pregnant and married to The-Boy-You-Used-To-Shag, she glowed the glow of the preternaturally happy.

Harry was a different story. Where Ginny shone, Harry seemed to have gotten shaggier as time went by. Skinnier too. And there was a haunted, hungry look in his eyes as he thanked you for coming. He cast an awkward glance at Malfoy, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. Either Ginny had grown stupid, or she was choosing to ignore the way Draco's fist clenched.

The dinner was prepared by both of them and it was as lavish as any Hogwarts feast. At least, that's what Draco told Ginny. She flushed and oozed and fell under what you started calling the Serpent's Spell. The pair of them spoke about baby names, and Draco's new job and what Ginny was doing with her maternity leave from the Ministry. You and Harry made small talk – talking about Aurors, quidditch and the baby room they had prepared upstairs.

Ginny pulled you into the kitchen to help her serve the desert. You noticed how the air turned electric as you left your boyfriend and your ex alone. You held her as fiercely as you dared, what with the baby and all. She cried happy tears into your blazer, and you tried not to think about the stain she was making. Suddenly, you forgave her. Funny thing though, you never thought you blamed her for stealing Harry away. But you must have. That would explain why you never tried to contact her; why you aren't as close with your family. Surely they all saw the hopelessness in your eyes when Harry proposed? Why didn't Ginny – of all people – notice the way you were together? Wonder why Harry came back from the bathroom, on their wedding day, looking sated as all Hell? Or had she known all along and had chosen to eke out a happy family as best she could?

Admittedly, you thought about it – telling your little sister that you'd had her husband first. A spiteful, petty part (no doubt nurtured by Draco) wanted to see her expression; witness her perfect little world crumble under the cold truth…

"Ron, you idiot," she chided softly, her GREEN eyes brimming over, "What took you so long?"

You were startled by the naked emotions etched on her face. She missed you. She loves you. She trusts you.

You kissed her brow. You were going to die with the cold truth.

When the pair of you returned from the kitchen, with bloodshot eyes, sniffling noses and ridiculous grins, Lion and Snake had not moved an inch. Both men had the same deadly expressions, their hands hovering over the wands in their pockets. Ginny looked irked, placing the bowls of tiramisu on the table with so much force you jumped.

"Oh, GROW UP!" she growled, "We're mature, accountable adults having a mature, accountable evening!" She took a deep breath, slowly settling herself into her seat, "Now, we're going to end this dinner on a wonderful note. What may or may not have happened in the past is in the past."

_Oh, but this is about so much more than the past_, you knew they were thinking it as well. Nevertheless, you took your seat and Draco resumed his flattery. Harry, hardly touching his food, unabashedly and almost obsessively watched you devour yours and, when you asked if he was going to finish it, he gave a ghost of a smirk as he gently nudged the bowl your way. Your fingers touched, and colour rushed to his cheeks.

"It's been eons, mate," Harry stated as evenly as he could, "Why don't we go for a drink?"

It must have taken you hours to find the courage to slide out from under the pale, scrawny arm that was draped against your chest. Harry twitched in his sleep before nuzzling the side of his face deeper into the pillow. You swung your leg over the bed, slowly sliding your body from under the covers. Finally, you sat up, your head cradled in your hands.

This was a big mistake.

The crackling of the fireplace gave life to the light and shadows. This made it harder to find your clothes; scattered and forgotten the minute Harry closed the door behind you.

_Ginny won't expect me until sunrise. Please, Ron…please…_

Jesus, you knew this was going to happen. Galleons, Firewhiskey and a room in The Leaky Cauldron. And Harry Potter. In every position of the Karma Sutra, begging you for more.

_Yes, Ron. There. Please, there..._

Your insides became a void at the memory. There is no word in the dictionary for the degree of asshole you have currently reached. Ginny – your sister, remember her? – was probably sleeping all unsuspecting and vulnerable and _motherfucking_ _pregnant_. And were are you? Oh, naked in bed with her husband, is all.

You expected it to feel better than this. He ruined your life by leaving, so why, now you have him back, do you feel empty?

_Ginny, s-she doesn't have to know, does she? I mean, she's pregnant. We're…we're about to start a family. It's just…I can't live without you, Ron…_

You didn't look at your genitals as you dressed. You weren't sick. Just…empty. And lonely. And so sorry that you let your sister marry someone like this. So sorry she has a brother like you.

"…Ron?"

You paused, hand on the doorknob. He looked lost and scared, his bedhair whipped every which way. His eyes were unfocused, unable to see you without glasses, but they grew wide when he heard you open the door.

You apologised.

"…I love you…" he whimpered pathetically. His voice shook with tears, his body trembled slightly.

This time, _you_ left _him._

_Oh, God. Draco._

It wasn't until you stumbled out of your fireplace and spotted the load of baggage in the living room that you realise the depth of your mistake. Your stomach, previously empty, filled up with bile and dread and Ginny's dinner. In your mind, a mantra of _nononononononononononono__…_

"Ah, you're back!" Draco's voice sounded thicker than usual as he swaggered in. You didn't even have to look at the very used looking glass in his hand to know that he had been drinking: his ruined hair, rumpled clothes and flushed face said enough. And yet, he effortlessly floated to the couch, reclining. "Didn't expect you back so early. Didn't expect you back at all. Or at least alone. "

You spluttered, trying to thinking of a reason, any reason, that would take the guilt off your chest, but Draco raised his hand. "No, my love. Be a good boy and shut up. I've a lot to say and I believe I'm drunk enough not to care how it all comes out. You owe me that much."

You looked at your shoes, praying that they'd eat you whole. He rested his fingers against his temple, chatting animatedly.

"How was Potter anyway? Any good? He was a respectable shag, last time I checked. But then again, I was fifteen and begging for _some_ positive attention. And he was gagging for a go at you. Oh, don't look so shocked, Weasley, we both know he's always had the hots for you. I may have been a meaningless FUCK, but you…_you…_know what I realised? It's always been about him, hasn't it? The Boy-Who-Lived-To-Make-Our-Lives-Miserable; Harry bugger _Potter:_ patron saint of insecure teenage boys. I mean, that's why we're in our current position, isn't it? But you know what, Ron? Harry's not the reason I've stayed."

Your heart skipped a beat and you looked up. His eyes looked glassy in the firelight and he closed them, breathing hard for a few minutes. You noticed the flicker of a teardrop trace the arch of his cheek. Great. You've made two full-grown men – war veterans! – cry in one evening. There must be a special place in Hell for that kind of thing.

"When I disappeared for two months, it wasn't for a change of environment. I went to Pansy. I wanted to get fixed. I thought…silly of me really but I thought that, maybe, I could… _we _could…you invited me to meet your _family_, Ron."

He looked up as his voice trailed off, reading your reaction, waiting for an answer. You said nothing. Draco, his jaw stone-hard, blinked rapidly before dropping his cold, dead gaze. An awkward, tense silence fell between the two of you as he downed the rest of his Firewhiskey and magicked the glass away. Your head had a million things your mouth didn't want to say.

Was this whole thing between you two still about your feelings for Harry, when he hadn't crossed your mind for the longest time? What have you even _felt_ about Harry? All the years together, the "I love you"s Harry would whisper. Then it hit you: you never loved Harry Potter. He was a constant, a brother, a badge. When you seduced him, it was out of a desire to own him; to remind him of your importance. When you touched him, and he trembled willingly under your touch, it was the victor's triumph that made you hard; the teenage sex drive that kept you coming back. The mere sensation that you had bettered the very man sitting before you.

Then Draco cleared his throat and rose, stooped and awkward. You took notice of his shoulder blades and how they felt as you clung to him. You watched his movements, acutely aware of how something in you swayed with him. His voice, haughty and authoritative, made your blood boil for conflicting reasons. His tongue could conjure a fist fight within seconds and make you swoon when it swirled in your mouth. He was always richer than you; more graceful than you; better-looking, and yet you aren't dwarfed in his shadow. He inspired in you the urge to do better – if only to allow you to gloat – and you inspired the same in him.

Everything you've ever done with Harry was because of Draco Malfoy. Because you wanted him to acknowledge you. Because…you were in love with him.

That was it. Your heart turned frantic, your breathing uneven. You knew your ears were flushed with the blood that rapidly gushed through your veins. He couldn't leave. Don't. Please.

Silken threads shifted as he turned around, flickering bloodshot eyes at the freckled hand that gripped his arm. His jaw hardened as he tried to shake it off, but you gripped tighter.

"Stop that," he slurred, trying again to shake you. You held your ground. Did he love you?

"Fuck off," he cursed weakly, turning his face away. You asked again, grabbing him by the chin. Grey irises burned a blizzard as he glared at you.

"What do you think, Weasel? Body and soul. But I'm not _Potter_, am I?"

You kissed him, deep and searching. It didn't take long before he responded with a passion that almost made you buckle.

When he slid in and out of you – so slowly it overwhelmed you – his tears pattered on your chest. Yours stained the pillow. His hand never left yours, not even when you finally fell asleep hours later.

You cussed, slapping the hand away from your collar. Draco clicked his tongue in annoyance, muttering a "fine, stomp around like a great shit-flinging orang-utan" as he withdrew. You hated it when he groomed you, which only made him groom you more. He gave you a quick look-over; his eyes calculating the aesthetic worth of every item of clothing he made you pick out in Milan. Apparently you fit the bill, because he gave a smirk before tapping against the door. He did almost everything that could be done with his left hand nowadays. It was cute before the wedding.

There was no answer in the house. Draco gave the door another tap, as if politely touching the wood would create any meaningful noise.

"Why, _darling_," he cooed with saccharine sweetness, "Whatever are you saying? There is no logical reason I wouldn't want to see a closeted homosexual and his 8-month-old walking lie on the day I return from my honeymoon, is there? Because we all _looooove_ Harry Potter."

You sighed. He promised he would behave. It was just for a few hours – you needed the closure, especially since Harry refused to even attend your ceremony.

Draco sneered, "I will set fire to any part of you he touches, _capice_?"

You heard sounds inside. You quickly leant over, placing a tender kiss on your husband's lips before the door opened.

"I love you too, Draco."


End file.
